


honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

by gerardsjuarez



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Jazz - Freeform, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Wine, based on a hozier song, loosely based on a Lana Del Rey song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:42:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerardsjuarez/pseuds/gerardsjuarez
Summary: The year is 1926. Crowley's drunk. The sky rains. Truths are muttered through phone calls.





	honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

##  [𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓮𝔂 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓹𝓾𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓹𝓼 𝓸𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓹𝓼](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQdlMZumbcY)

_(without the song that the link takes you to, you cannot truly read this ficlet)_

The world is a dreary place. Specifically London as of then, with its crying clouds and human husks walking briskly down the road, shouting after full taxis. They always got so angry, like they expected the half-sober taximan to force his passengers out just because some Pretty Lady needs a ride to her lover’s flat as soon as possible because he mentioned a woman named ‘Sarah’ on the phone.**  
**

But the world was particularly dreary for one reason in particular. It was a Friday night and the streets were busy with nothing that would last. Well, in the decent parts of London, the streets were busy. Outside of Crowley’s flat, there was just the sound of rain and the occasional passing car. In short, he was miserable because he was alone. Utterly alone. Alone and lonely. And just a tad drunk. So, so very drunk.

He fell onto his back, letting the empty wine bottle fall out of his hand. He’s always been a lover of dramatics. Even when he’s alone. Utterly alone. The radio kept him company, though, playing whatever station it decided to settle on. About three stations came in. One was politics, the other was a station that wasn’t in English, and the other was jazz. Sometimes he picked up frequencies used by the military when he pushed the antenna just a smidge to the side. After hearing a man call a nurse ‘a hot piece of bologna’, he didn’t listen in on their conversations.

There isn’t much to do on a Friday night in Soho when one is alone. Alone and drunk. Very drunk. He thought about sobering up but that took too much work. How else was he supposed to talk to someone he fancied without making a fool of himself.

Bloody hell, why was he on the phone?! Alcohol, any kind of it, has a wonderful thing that it does when one drinks way too much: make one blackout and suddenly, after a bit, fade back in. And when he does fade back in, well, the phone is ringing. He has two choices in this situation. Does he hang up and pretend it never happened? Or does he muscle through it and see just who it was that he was ringing?

Last-minute, as the phone is being picked up, he decided to go with the latter.

“You’ve reached Mr. Fell.”

Dammit, even drunk, he can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

“Aye,” he said into the phone, voice low like the purr of a car’s engine, “are you busy, angel?”

A pause, “_Crowley_ \- hello, dear. I’m not busy at the moment, no. Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Oh, no, no.” Crowley sniffed, “I jus’ really want you to come over.”

“For… any particular reason?” Aziraphale sounded unsure.

“I’ve got a new radio. Thought you might wanna indulge in some wine and jazz?” Crowley licked his lips, hoping the answer was a no but also secretly hoping he would show up.

“I don’t know, Crowley, dear…” He hesitated.

“I’m drunk anyway.” He shrugged, downplaying the whole ordeal, “I’m just drunk and alone. _Plastered_.”

“Well… why are you calling then, dear boy?” Aziraphale chuckled, seemingly amused.

Crowley groaned, admitting rather miserably, “I wanted to hear your voice.”

_Click_.

Loudly, the dial tone went on until the operator asked if Crowley needed to make another call. He told her to have a good night and hung up the phone. 

In summary, he had royally fucked up. The one time Crowley shows any kind of compassion is the time where Aziraphale rejects it. It would’ve hurt a lot less if Aziraphale had said something instead of just hanging up the phone. Even if it was just… ‘_I don’t think we’re on the same page of how we feel about one another, regardless if you’re intoxicated, my dear_.’ And he _would_ say ‘my dear’ because he was polite and knew that Crowley liked it when he called him that, even if he was outright saying ‘I don’t love you’.

The rain outside grew heavier and Crowley felt a wet plop onto his hair. With a sigh, he put his empty coffee mug under the drip, hoping that he would remember to miracle that better when he was a little bit sober. Should he sober up? Nah. He would have to face too many realities that way. Was he a coward? In short, yes.

With an added sorrow, Crowley went over to the window so he could watch the city rain. It didn’t smell as nice as country rain or the first-ever rain but hey, he took what he could get. But then… oh. There was a man out there, looking up the apartment building. And it was - it was Aziraphale! He came!

Crowley, tripping over himself and knocking over the coffee cup of rainwater, made his way to his apartment door, wrenching it open and racing down the stairs. Aziraphale was still outside when Crowley made it to the gate, dressed in a hat and a trenchcoat. He appeared to be smiling but rather sadly. Maybe he was there to apologize. Crowley didn’t care. He flung open the gate.

“Angel,” he breathed out, words turning to steam.

The angel’s smile grew, “I wanted to hear your voice, too.”

And at that moment, the demon tossed aside any memory of social cues and threw himself at Aziraphale, kissing him hard enough to make him stumble backward. And it was perfect. The rain, the alcohol clouding his morals, and how perfectly Aziraphale reached up to kiss him back. When the faint sounds of a nearby car came nearer, they parted.

The car passed.

They watched.

Crowley looked at the angel, “You came.”

“And you kissed me.” His eyes lit up as he said it, “And I would very much like it if you did it again. Invite me up?”

He glanced up at the building before sending Aziraphale a look that meant many things but predominately, _I fucking need you._

“Please, angel. Come up?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were soft, “I’d love to.”


End file.
